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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691654">a white blank page (to write our happy ending)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite'>scarletite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And basically become stray cats, Canon Divergence, Catra and Adora flee the Horde together, Contains:, Dumb Soft Gays vs The World, F/F, Fluff, Shadow Weaver’s A+ Parenting, Who are unknowingly adopted by all of Etheria, Yearning, now with:</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:29:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691654</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Adora almost writes a note, has a pen and a scrap of paper in hand, the name <i>Shadow Weaver</i> at the tips of her fingers—</p><p>But Catra yawns and drops down at the foot of their bunk. Her under-eyes are smudged with dark circles from nights of planning and scouting and preparing. And she looks up at Adora with her mismatched gaze—exhausted, but hopeful.</p><p>Adora sets the pen down, leaves the paper blank.</p><p>-</p><p>[AU: In which Catra and Adora flee the Horde together, muddle through their shared feelings and trauma, and try to decide what kind of life they want to build when all they've ever done is destroy.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adora/Catra (She-Ra)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1031</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>let's just say adora doesn't hear the call for the sword, that she gets her promotion, but the true nature of the horde is unavoidable once she learns their plans. the reasons don't matter, all that matters is: catra and adora, keeping their promise to look after each other, and staying together.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Here is the list of things they manage to bring with them when they run:</p><ol>
<li>Two changes of clothes each, the maximum a cadet is allowed to have.</li>
<li>Nine ration bars—four grey, five the dreaded brown; half are stolen from Kyle’s ‘super secret’ stash, aka under his gross socks, the rest carefully hoarded over a few days.</li>
<li>A hand-drawn map of Etheria, sketched by Adora’s deft hand but with Catra’s red-ink doodles on the edges.</li>
</ol><p>Adora almost writes a note, has a pen and a scrap of paper in hand, the name <em>Shadow</em><em> Weaver</em> at the tips of her fingers—</p><p>But Catra yawns and drops down at the foot of their bunk. Her under-eyes are smudged with dark circles from nights of planning and scouting and preparing. And she looks up at Adora with her mismatched gaze—exhausted, but hopeful.</p><p>Adora sets the pen down, leaves the paper blank.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They leave on a Wednesday, after lights out. </p><p>They gather their meager possessions in the backpack that Catra stole from the store room three days ago, pack them down with the scratchy blanket they’ve always shared to try and stop any noises.</p><p>They should be able to slip out easily, their fellow cadets have long since learned how to sleep through industrial-strength snoring, footsteps should be nothing.</p><p>Should be.</p><p>Rogelio is curled nose-to-tail in his bunk when they creep by, moving towards the door. They are quiet as can be, on tiptoes. But whether it’s the soft thud of Adora’s boots or the mild clinking of the supplies stashed in Catra’s stolen backpack, his eyes open and glow luminous in the dark.</p><p>He looks at them, eyes blinking slowly—he sees in the dark, just as well as Catra does, and the look in her eye and the full extension of her claws is nothing short of <em>wild.</em></p><p>Adora freezes, by the keypad, looking at him as he gives a rumbling snort.</p><p>“Don’t try to stop us.”</p><p>His eyes shift between them, tail uncoiling from his nose. He opens his mouth—pretends he doesn’t notice the bunching of Catra’s muscles—and gives them his best smile. It’s feral and flashes sharp teeth, but it’s intent is clear, obvious: <em>go, good luck</em>.</p><p>Catra’s claws retract, just an inch.</p><p>Adora reaches out, grabs Catra’s hand and pulls gently. She looks back at Rogelio, eyes wide and disbelieving but full of nothing but gratitude. </p><p>He gives them a soft grumble, jerking his head: <em>idiots, hurry.</em></p><p>Adora nods back, and then she keys some codes into the door and it slides open, the hallway lights slicing through the darkness and causing Kyle to grumble above him. He curls his tail back around his nose. </p><p>Catra chances a single glance back, her yellow eye on his. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say thank you, but—there’s an intent in her eye, a message exchanged. He rumbles softly back.</p><p>And that is how they leave, the door sliding slowly closed and with one tight-lipped witness.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Compared to all the times as children that Catra’s gotten lost in the vents or Adora’s been turned around in the looping, seemingly endless corridors—leaving as adults, or as close as they are, is easy.</p><p>The most fraught moment comes when they cross outside of Shadow Weaver’s chambers. Catra’s tail fluffs in fear, but Adora doesn’t point it out for once, too busy trying to stop the shaking in her hands.</p><p>They creep by, throats thick and almost able to <em>feel </em>the Black Garnet crackle with warning. They expect to be caught, to be tortured and trialed. To be turned over to Hordak himself, sent to Beast Island or worse. But—</p><p>They pass silently by, and Shadow Weaver is none the wiser.</p><p>It’s almost too easy, after. They slip through the shadows, duck under cameras they know function and stride boldly by ones the know don’t. They’ve been running these halls for years now, and unlike when they were kids, they know what secrets they hide.</p><p>They come to the skiff bay from the back entrance, encounter only two guards on duty—both half-asleep, flagging at the late hour. They are easily dispatched, Catra pouncing on one and Adora slamming a fierce punch right into the other’s head that leaves him out like a light, his visor cracked.</p><p>“No going back now,” Catra says, tail lashing.</p><p>Adora nods, eyes sharp and electric blue. “No going back.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The skiff sails right out of the Fright Zone without an alarm.</p><p>Adora stands at the controls, mouth a flat line and eyes on the luminous moon above. She uses it like a linchpin, calculating paths and courses with a sort of ease that Catra’s never had—once a point of contention, now nothing but a blessing.</p><p>Up front, Catra sits with her legs dangling from the front and her tail curled around the edge. While Adora steers, she watches the horizon like a sentry, night vision doing nothing to stop her from jumping at the slightest shape. </p><p>Neither one of them speak again for what feels like hours, too scared to break the silence. Too scared that this is a dream, and speaking will wake them up, put them back into a world where they’re nothing but child soldiers marching under a tyrant’s banner.</p><p>The skiff flies for a small eternity, as fast as Adora can push it. And then it flies for minutes more. Long enough, that Catra fears they’re lost, begins to doubt Adora’s memory and the intricate map they’ve put together. Enough to have bubbles of fear building beneath her breast bone.</p><p>But then, finally, they come upon the edge of the Whispering Woods.</p><p>It stands silent and still, the trunks of its trees twisted and unnatural, woven with vines that shift and seethe like snakes in the corner of their eyes.</p><p>It is a calculated risk, coming here: the one place even the Horde has never been able to map out, more squads lost to it than any battle. If they are lucky, these twisted woods will swallow them safely up. If they aren’t, they’ll at least go out on their own terms, not as pawns in war games.</p><p>“Here goes nothing,” Adora whispers into the night. “You ready?</p><p>Catra curls her arms around herself. “As I’ll ever be.”</p><p>And so they enter.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They have to dump the skiff eventually, when it starts to stutter and grumble and then, eventually, sink to the ground. Adora tries to rev it back to life, but it sputters uselessly. The fuel gauge reads empty. Expected, but an unpleasant loss.</p><p>“This place gives me the creeps,” Catra decides, as she jumps down into the soft grass. “It’s like it’s alive.”</p><p>Adora thuds down less gracefully, grimacing as her knees crack. “Yeah, totally—like the story of the Swamp Princess.”</p><p>They both shudder in remembrance, half-expecting giant golems of vines and mud to burst from the shadowy canopies and scrub around them. But it is quiet, still, but for the whispering of wind through the leaves.</p><p>“Well,” Catra throws her backpack over to Adora, who reluctantly slips the straps over her own shoulders. Her dark claws flash silvery in the moonlight, as she wiggles them at Adora. “I think we can handle a few measly Princesses, don’t you?”</p><p>The bravado is fake, clear as day to both of them.</p><p>But Adora lets it hearten her, swallows back the uncertainty and the rapid thudding of her heart.</p><p>(A voice like Shadow Weaver’s croons at the back of her brain: <em>you’re a fool, you’re too weak, you’ll die out here, they’ll find you both and destroy you, you can’t protect her.</em>)</p><p>Instead, she draws close to Catra, takes comfort from the certainty that she is not alone. That they are here, alive, together. That this is the chance they’ve always waited for. Freedom: tentative and uncertain, but theirs.</p><p>“Yeah.” She smiles. “Yeah, we got this.”</p><p>Their shoulders touch, warm and solid. It feels good, right; despite everything, the touch grounds her.</p><p>Catra tips her head to look at her, her eyes unreadable. She doesn’t even seem to notice when her tail brushes at Adora’s inner wrist.</p><p>She gives Adora a soft, real smile: the kind only Adora is allowed to see. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Catra looks up the trunk of an ancient tree, branches study and thick. “Think this is it?”</p><p>“What?” Adora asks.</p><p>“The heart of the woods.” She touches the trunk with her hands, nails testing the strength of the ancient bark. “Only place that you’d find a tree this big, right? This thing is giant.”</p><p>“They say this place used to be soaked with magic. That the leftovers scramble your brain so you’ll never be able to find your way out again,” Adora says, shuddering. </p><p>“So, it’s magically huge, then.” Her claws sink into the bark, yanking. “Hm, it’ll do.”</p><p>“Do for what?”</p><p>“I’m tired, doofus. Nobody’s going to look for us up a tree.”</p><p>Adora grimaces. She’s not scared of heights—can’t be, when your best friend’s favorite thing to do is to climb to the top of whatever tower she can—but this thing is huge, like one of the spires in the Fright Zone. So big, that even if you fell from a low branch, it’d be with a splat.</p><p>“I mean, I think we’re far enough away by now not to worry?” Adora drops their backpack, rolling the stiffness out of her shoulders. She sizes up the height to the nearest branch, a good fifteen feet climb. “Also, we didn’t bring any ropes, and I don’t exactly have claws. How am I going to get up?”</p><p>Catra rolls her eyes. “Humans. So defenseless.”</p><p>“I am <em>not</em>.”</p><p>“Imagine having those weak little nails,” Catra clicks her tongue, flashes her razor-sharp claws in the clouded moonlight. “Such a waste.”</p><p>“That’s rude,” Adora grins at her, reaching out and locking her arm around her neck. She buries her knuckles into the top of Catra’s head, giving her the world’s worst noogie until she screeches. “I may be a human, but I can still kick <em>your</em> butt any day of the week.”</p><p>Ears flat and tail puffed out to twice its usual size, Catra shrieks. “Let me go! <em>Ad</em><em>ooooora, stop it!”</em></p><p>Just to hammer the point home, she gets an extra second or two in for good measure. Then, with a loud laugh, she releases her. She’s not even surprised when Catra, red-faced, tackles her into the dirt.</p><p>The two of them grapple and bat at each other, fingers honed in on all their weak points to try and tickle the other into submission. It’s a familiar game, from when they were kids. One they haven’t been able to play in days, weeks, maybe even years—not without Shadow Weaver ghosting in, all narrow-eyed and disgusted.</p><p>Eventually, Adora ends up on her stomach, giggling and panting for breath. “Catra! No!”</p><p>“Catra, <em>yes</em>,” Catra purrs; literally, the sound rumbling around them. She’s perched triumphantly on Adora’s lower back. Even with claws, she does a remarkable job of poking at all of Adora’s twitchy spots. She teases right at the curve of Adora’s waist, cackling as her best friend writhes and shouts below her. “That’s right, pathetic human! Fall beneath my wrath.”</p><p>“You’re—so—dumb!” Adora wheezes, trying to buck her off without luck.</p><p>“C’mon, Adora!” She presses harder, until Adora’s literally gasping, her fingers clawing at the dirt and tears of laughter in her eyes. “Say Uncle!”</p><p>“Never!”</p><p>“Your funeral,” Catra decides, palms sliding up until they’re hooked under Adora’s armpits, going right for the kill.</p><p>Eventually, not even Adora can withstand the torture, although she tries her best—lasts a respectable sixty seconds, before she face plants in the dirt, red down to her toes and sweating. “Alright! Uncle, uncle! Stop!”</p><p>Catra laughs, hopping off of Adora. “And Catra is victorious.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Adora says, without venom, flopping bonelessly onto her back.</p><p>Catra crouches over her, her face upside down. “You’re a mess.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Adora agrees, her ponytail wrecked and tears drying on her cheeks. “And you look like you caught the wrong end of a blow-dryer.”</p><p>Shrugging, she licks her palm, running it over her mane until it feels somewhat reasonable.</p><p>Adora just grins up at her, teeth perfectly straight and white. She’s still a little red in her cheeks, but there’s a strange look on her face now—it makes Catra’s tail twitch a little, scowling down at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“All <em>goofy</em>,” Catra squints suspiciously. “Is there something on my face?”</p><p>“You’re goofy,” Adora retorts immediately, smiling still.</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Catra drops from her crouch to sit cross-legged by Adora’s head. She licks her palm again, this time reaching out to scrub at the tear trails on Adora’s cheeks. “You’re such a weirdo,” she huffs, lip quirked. “There, you big baby. Now stop looking at me all pathetic like that. It’s embarrassing.”</p><p>And Adora just shuffles up, until she’s got her head in Catra’s lap.</p><p>She blinks slowly, looking down at her.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re here.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to let you go alone.” She gives a noncommittal shrug, even as her tail coils up, brushes absently under the soft skin of Adora’s jaw. “You’d get yourself killed within a week.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They end up sleeping on the ground.</p><p>Adora falls asleep, just like that—her head in Catra’s lap, a clawed hand gently brushing out the snags and loose strands from her hair.</p><p>It’s weird. For all they’re touchy, for all they’ve shared a bunk for years, they’ve never been <em>affectionate</em> like this. Could never afford to be. And it leaves Catra feeling both hot and cold. Her cheeks burn, but her stomach twists in knots.</p><p>Catra tries to stop so many times, chest tight, as she looks down at Adora’s peaceful face. But she doesn’t, can’t bring herself to. Even when Adora begins to squirm and throw sluggish punches, because she’s an idiot who can’t be still for more than five seconds, all Catra does is catch her fists between her palms, stroking her thumbs over the back of them until Adora settles with a sigh.</p><p>It takes Catra hours to fall asleep.</p><p>She’ll go to her grave swearing it’s because she’s <em>actually naturally nocturnal</em>, not because her entire body is humming with things she can’t name.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t we bring water?” Adora groans. “That’s, like, the one thing you should never forget. Survival Essentials 101.”</p><p>Catra huffs. “Well, I wasn’t in charge of the list—”</p><p>“Oh, no. Don’t blame me. I was the one who was all, ‘it’ll be fine, Adora,’ and ‘stop worrying, Adora, we’ll figure it out’,” Adora says, voice deliberately high and squeaky. “This is totally your fault.”</p><p>“Idiot,” Catra shoves her with her shoulder.</p><p>Adora shoves her back, naturally. “Stupid.”</p><p>“Dumbass,” Catra growls, pushing her almost off her feet.</p><p>As has become their new custom over the last day and a half, they end up falling into a tangle of limbs. They scrap and shout until one of them—Adora, this time, cackling loudly as she presses Catra’s face into the dirt—comes out victorious. </p><p>“Hold on,” Catra hisses, reaching back to awkwardly slap a hand over her mouth.</p><p>Adora freezes, brows pinched. “Mmf?”</p><p>“Shut up.” Her ear tilts and her head cocks. “I hear—”</p><p>And, although she’s totally an adult, Adora has learned how to be a pest from the best. She doesn’t pull away, like she so easily could, considering she’s straddling Catra’s thighs from behind. Instead, she takes the moral low ground. She licks Catra’s palm.</p><p>“Oh my God!” Catra lets out a little squeak, jerking her hand away. “You’re disgusting.”</p><p>Unrepentant, Adora sticks her tongue out. “You deserved it. What’d you hear, anyway?”</p><p>Catra scrubs the saliva on the grass, grimacing. “Water, I think—which is good, because now I really need to wash my hands. You’re awful, Adora. Do you even know how gross your mouth is?”</p><p>“I brush my teeth.”</p><p>“Not last night, Miss Morning Breath,” she retorts, giggling when Adora slaps a hand self-consciously over her mouth. “Anyway, get off me. What are you made of, cement? Ugh.”</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Adora obediently get up.</p><p>Catra turns over, tail still fluffed up, and then blinks as Adora holds out an expectant hand.</p><p>She takes it, eyes averted. “Pfft, idiot.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They find the river, thanks to Catra's ears. It's impossibly clear and cool in the heat of the afternoon sun.</p><p>After they drink their fill—Catra literally just dropping her entire head into the water, lapping greedily; Adora, much more sedate, sipping from her palms—they end up just sitting on the grassy bank, shoulder-to-shoulder.</p><p>"Do you think they're looking for us?"</p><p>Catra shrugs, the soft fur of her bare arm tickling Adora's skin. She pretends not to notice the water, still gleaming in the curve of Adora's chest. It's Catra's fault that Adora's half-naked, in just her sports bra and a spare pair of pants. After an impromptu trip (read: push) into the river, she's left her jacket and shirt on a sunny rock to dry.</p><p>
  <em>(Catra flops onto her back, holding her stomach. "Your face!" She shrieks. "You're so easy, Adora! You look like a drowned rat."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Oh, yeah?" Adora drags herself from the freezing water, body slamming Catra so hard it takes the air out of them both. She wraps her arms around Catra, laughing at her yowling—"ew, Adora, my fur"—and squeezing every inch of them together. "How do you like it?")</em>
</p><p>"Shadow Weaver's probably losing her mind looking for you," Catra answers, after a moment. Then follows, bitterly, "I don't think she'd notice I was even gone, if it was just me."</p><p>Something slips across Adora's face, and she looks at Catra—she looks entirely different, hair loose and dirty-blonde around her shoulders, skin glowing in the sun in a way that the smog of the Horde and her regulation uniform's never allowed. But her eyes, noticeably, are the biggest difference. They are still and deep like lake water, but something unreadable twists beneath the surface. </p><p>"Do you regret it?" Adora asks. </p><p>She frowns. "Escaping that hellhole? Of course not."</p><p>"You loved the Horde."</p><p>"I hated the Horde," Catra scoffs. Then, voice softer, "I liked being there with you."</p><p>Adora's hand shifts a little, her pinkie brushing Catra's. "I almost didn't ask you, you know."</p><p>"What?" Wounded by the implication, Catra moves to shift away, her tail curling defensively around her waist.</p><p>"No, not—like that." Adora's fingers curl over top of her own, halting her. "I just…you were so excited, when I was made Force Captain. Like, we were finally going to do what we always talked about: take control, become the bosses. And I was too. But then, in Orientation, I—seeing their plans, what they were doing, it was too much. But I didn't know how to tell you. To ask you."</p><p>It startles her, and Catra freezes, looking down at their hands. "But you did."</p><p>"And you came," Adora agrees. "But, I almost didn't. It took me days to work up the nerve."</p><p>"I know," Catra's lip quirks. "You're an awful liar, and even worse at hiding when you're upset."</p><p>"It's stupid. I just can't help but think—" Adora looks away, now, flagging a little under Catra's eyes. "Am I ungrateful?"</p><p>The question takes the air out of Catra, for an instant. "What?"</p><p>"For leaving?" Her mouth is a flat, straight line, but the quiver at the edge gives her away. "For not telling anyone—Lonnie, Rogelio, Kyle? We could have brought them with us. Or for wasting all the time and effort Shadow Weaver put into me? For ruining our promise. Maybe we should have stayed, made it better, so nobody else had to go through what we did."</p><p>And she's stupid, Catra's always known Adora's had a problem with guilt and pity parades, but it's just—<em>ugh</em>.</p><p>"Adora, you're the dumbest person I've ever met."</p><p>Surprised, vulnerability flashing over her face for a moment, Adora looks back at her.</p><p>"The Horde is <em>evil</em>, Adora. Even I've always known that. I don't think there <em>is </em>any changing it." She sighs, shuffles so she's sitting on Adora's outstretched legs. Her hands grip pointedly at Adora's bare shoulders. "You aren't responsible for the Horde. For Lonnie and those losers. All that matters is <em>us</em>. Don't let Shadow Weaver's crap scramble your brains."</p><p>Adora reaches up, one hand covering Catra's. "Do you mean it?"</p><p>"Of course." Catra leans forward, brushing their foreheads together and blinking slowly into Adora's eyes. "Don't you remember? You look out for me, and I look out for you. Nothing else matters."</p><p>Adora's gaze cuts deep to something inside of her. "I remember."</p><p>"Good." Their noses brush, just for an instant. "We're in this together. Us against the world. Promise?"</p><p>A low, soft noise hums from Adora's throat. "I promise."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Whoa, check it out.”</p><p>Adora peers over her shoulder, even though she doesn’t really need to.</p><p>They've been wandering for an hour, almost aimless, but desperate to put more distance between themselves and the Horde—or, to be more accurate, Shadow Weaver, who they know will stop at <em>nothing </em>to drag them back, kicking and screaming. What they don't expect, is to come upon a building out there, in the middle of these creepy woods.</p><p>It’s a huge, light and ostentatious in the way that can <em>only </em>be seen outside of the Horde. It’s spread over multiple floors, with big glass windows, huge columns, and vines creeping all around it.</p><p>“What is this place?” Adora whispers, eyes wide.</p><p>Catra looks at her, grin positively feral. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”</p><p>Before Adora can do more than reach out and whisper-yell <em>Catra, no</em>, her friend is already pouncing up into the branches overhead. Like a trained acrobat, she rockets off one with both powerful feet, landing lightly on the building’s roof.</p><p>“Catra! Stop!” Adora says, louder, heart pounding as she scrambles through the little clearing. “You don’t know what’s out here! This could be a rebel stronghold, or a trap, or a home for evil Princesses. It’s not safe!”</p><p>Catra just flaps her wrist, peering in through one of the windows. “Huh, it’s like—books and stuff?”</p><p>“Books?” </p><p>“Yeah, you gotta see this.” Catra scratches at the window a few times with her claws, trying to jimmy it open. “I wonder what it’s for?”</p><p>Panic flaring, Adora gets as far as, <em>"Catra, don't</em>—" before she manages to pop the window open and scurry inside.</p><p>"I'm going to kill her," Adora says, squaring her shoulders and looking up at the big, intimidating doors. "I'm going to throttle her."</p><p>There's a thud and a crash, followed by a screech from Catra.</p><p>Without even thinking—she has years of dealing with the aftermath of Catra's impulses and the resulting blowout—Adora lurches across the field and kicks the door open before she can even think twice about it. She's got a dagger in her hand, the one she normally hides in her boot. "Catra!"</p><p>"Adora," Catra hisses, ears back and tail stiff. "Help."</p><p>And there, sitting on a loveseat, cup of tea halfway up to his mouth, sits an older man. </p><p>He's gaping, looking at the pile of books Catra's buried in, and the shattered remnants of a vase (a bowl, maybe?) on the ground in front of her.</p><p>"Well," says another man from the doorway, looking between Catra, Adora—particularly, the knife dangling loosely from her fingers—and the man frozen on the couch. "Were we expecting visitors, honey?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Adora and Catra get adopted by Bow’s Dads, we learn about some old traumas, and the beginning of them trying to learn how to cope with being literal child soldiers and all the baggage it brings.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In possibly the most bizarre twenty minutes of her life—after waving her knife around for a bit, extracting a hissing Catra from a pile of books, and awkwardly watching two grown men sob over the ‘priceless Vase of Eternia’—Adora somehow ends up sandwiched on a loveseat with Catra.</p><p>She takes a furtive sip from the weird little cup she’s been given, mostly to be polite, but also so she can do something with her hands. </p><p>“It could be poison,” Catra hisses, tail curling around her knee. Her own cup sits untouched on the table between them, and she’s been glaring suspiciously at it for a while. “Are you dumb?”</p><p>Adora ignores her, humming. “Oh. Oh, that’s—wow.”</p><p>Bristling a little, worry on her face, Catra turns. “Adora—”</p><p>“What is this?” Adora asks, eyes sparkling. She takes a deep gulp. “It’s kind of bitter, but also sweet, and warm, too? It’s just—wow. The Fright Zone doesn’t have anything like this!”</p><p>“Tea and two sugars,” Lance smiles. “We grow our own tea leaves.”</p><p>“<em>I </em>grow them, honey,” George says, sipping at his own sedately. He nudges his husband with his shoulder, mustache quirking with his smile. “<em>You </em>can’t keep a cactus alive.”</p><p>Lance just smiles back. “And <em>you </em>can’t tell Proto-Etherian art from Pre-Eternian. We all have our gifts.”</p><p>George gasps. “You know that the characteristics of Proto-Etherian art is virtually identical, that they originate from roughly the same time periods. There is no discernible proof that—”</p><p>What ensues is five long minutes of listening to two grown men squabble about ‘contemporary art styles’ and something about ‘carbon dating’ that leaves Catra and Adora’s heads spinning in circles. There’s no heat to the argument though, it’s something old, fond—the two men nudging and glaring at each other, but they’re smiling and laughing all the while.</p><p>It feels familiar—makes Catra avert her eyes, focusing on Adora instead.</p><p>Adora looks back at her, eyes bright and pleading. The teacup in her hand is empty.</p><p>“Ugh,” Catra nudges the cup over to her. “This is just because I don’t want to deal with your dumb, sad face. It’s not because I like you.”</p><p>Adora takes it with a brilliant smile, leaning against her shoulder. “Thanks, Catra.”</p><p>“Whatever.” She looks away again, cheeks hot. “Don’t come crying to me when it really does turn out to be poison.”</p><p>Eventually, Catra grows sick of the whirling argument going on in front of the two of them. It’s less an argument now though, somewhere in there they’ve apparently made some sort of realization, because their voices are high with excitement and George is scribbling notes in a journal of some sort.</p><p>“So,” Catra huffs, deliberately dry. “Are you done?”</p><p>That seems to startle the two men out of their discussion. “Sorry, girls,” Lance flashes them a bright smile, nudging George’s knee with his own as his husband scribbles a few final notes and shuts his notebook. “We’re as married to our work as we are each other. Sometimes, we get a little sidetracked.”</p><p>Adora sets Catra’s empty teacup down, licking her lips. “What’s ‘married’ mean?”</p><p>That brings both men to a startled halt. “Well,” George says, after a moment, glancing at Lance. “I suppose it’s not surprising that love wouldn’t exactly be a part of the Horde’s curriculum.”</p><p>Catra opens her mouth, “How did you—?”</p><p>“I fought with the old Princess Alliance,” George says, ignoring the way the two girls stiffen. Catra, especially, shoulders drawn and her ears back. He shakes his head. “I’d recognize those uniforms anywhere. Also—” he reaches into his pocket, sets down a glimmering Force Captain badge on the coffee table, “—one of you dropped this.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>A long, awkward moment of silence passes.</p><p>Catra’s tail is curled tight enough to cut the circulation in Adora’s leg off, and she’s restlessly bouncing the other one. Both of them glance between each other, a silent—<em>we should go, run, get out—</em>and they’re both wound as tight as springs.</p><p>“Love is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Lance intercedes. He runs his thumb over the back of George’s hand. “You asked what ‘married’ means. Well, it’s a commitment. A promise to be partners. To spend the rest of your life with someone, loving them, trusting them, building a life with them.”</p><p>“Like family?” Adora asks, frowning.</p><p>“In a manner of speaking,” George says, looking at Catra this time—the wide look in her eyes, the nervous twist of her tail around Adora’s knee, with soft eyes. “It’s building a family together, out of romantic love. It’s a serious commitment, usually for life, and most people only get that with one other person.”</p><p>Catra swallows, her mouth dry. “How do you...become married?”</p><p>“They call the ceremony a wedding. It’s like a party, almost. Some people have big ones, some small. Lance and I had all our family there. That’s pretty normal. Coming to show support and to witness the commitment, it’s important to most people—you usually only get one ceremony, so you want your important people to be there.” George smiles, eyes a little distant. “It really depends on the couple, though.”</p><p>Adora bites her lip. “And if you don’t have family...?”</p><p>Catra glances at her, the look on Adora’s face makes her heart skip a beat. She’s seen that look before: the same one she always wore in class, in combat practice, in front of Shadow Weaver—the one that says <em>I’m going to learn everything that you can teach me</em>. </p><p>“Then you can make your own, family is more than blood,” Lance smiles, eyes warm and unreadable. “Family is what you make it. Sometimes, it’s just yourself and your partner. It can be friends you’ve made, it can be teachers you’ve had, or people you’ve met.” He pauses, smiling at George. “And sometimes it’s you, your partner, and your thirteen wonderful children.”</p><p>Catra’s eyes fly wide open with a choke. “<em>Thirteen</em>? How do you even—”</p><p>“Well, when two people love each other very much—”</p><p>“Nope! Forget I asked,” Catra hisses. “I do not need to relive the Talk again. We know how it works.”</p><p>It’s in the top three most embarrassing moments in her life, being sandwiched in next to Lonnie and Kyle while Instructor Cobalt explained—in graphic, clinical detail—all about the functions of the body and the ‘repercussions of amorous entanglement’.</p><p>The worst part was she couldn’t even mock Adora for getting all shy and embarrassed, because she’d been laid up in the infirmary, courtesy of a sprained ankle in training simulation.</p><p>“Shadow Weaver told me all about it.” Adora nods, frowning seriously. “If you have sex, you’ll get pregnant and die.”</p><p>The two men exchange a look, gaping. “Uh, that’s not exactly—”</p><p>“Alright, <em>I </em>know how it works.” Catra slaps a hand over Adora’s mouth with a wince. “Don’t mind her. She’s had too many concussions.”</p><p>Adora grumbles under her palm, rolling her eyes.</p><p>“<em>Anyway</em>,” Catra says, squinting pointedly at Adora before she lets her go. She turns back to the two bemused men sitting on the other seat. “You never did explain what this place is. This some sort of Princess hidey-hole?”</p><p>“Oh! Well, this is a museum!” Lance stands up, practically bouncing. He waves to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and glass-encased displays. “We’re Historians, we catalogue and study the history of the First Ones. We have the largest collection in all of Etheria!”</p><p>“The who now?”</p><p>“The First Ones,” George says, drinking the last of his tea and setting it dramatically down. “They were ancient settlers of Etheria. A highly-advanced race of humanoids with a rich culture. They disappeared centuries ago, but they left much if their technology and their art behind. We've dedicated our lives to piecing together their history.”</p><p>Catra frowns, ear twitching. “That sounds bor—” she lets out a surprised little <em>mrrp</em> noise when Adora elbows her, then carries on in monotone, glowering at her, “—really interesting.”</p><p>Adora grins back at her.</p><p>“Ah, but it is!” Lance says, dreamily. “An entire culture to unravel, with a complex writing system and enough technological advances to make your head spin. I can’t think of anything better.”</p><p>Mismatched eyes narrow. “And what do you do with the information you discover? Give it to the Rebellion?”</p><p>George shakes his head. “No.”</p><p>“The Horde?” Catra tries, frowning.</p><p>“Neither,” Lance says. “We’re historians, not fighters. We believe in the pursuit of knowledge, for knowledge’s sake. Any discoveries we make are recorded and catalogued but—unless they would do real good—we mostly keep it here, in hopes that it will one day inspire a new generation of historians.”</p><p>“But you’re part of the Rebellion,” Catra says, voice like steel. “Why wouldn’t you share it with your Princess friends? And why haven’t you turned us over to them yet? I bet they have a nice cell available for a couple of Horde cadets.”</p><p>George’s shoulders tighten, mustache drawn severely with the intensity of his frown. “I laid my sword down a long time ago. We left the Princess Alliance when it fell apart, and haven’t gone back. We’re neutral now. We just want to study the First Ones in peace.” He pauses, looking at them. “Besides, we’re not going to turn a couple of kids over to the Rebellion, Horde or not.”</p><p>“Ex-Horde,” Adora says. “We, uh, ran away? Defected?”</p><p>Catra puffs up proudly. “Stole a bunch of rations and a skiff, and made off for the one place the Horde’s never been able to figure out.”</p><p>Lance looks as if he’s about to faint at the idea of it. “And you did it all by yourselves?”</p><p>“Pfft, yeah.” Catra buffs her claws. “We’re awesome.”</p><p>Adora smiles at her.</p><p>“So, what now? Where are you headed?” </p><p>The two girls glance at each other. </p><p>“We,” Adora hesitates briefly, “don’t really know.”</p><p>Catra shrugs. “Didn’t really think we’d make it this far. Thought we’d get caught and sent to Beast Island, or that we’d get chewed up by these freaky woods. Just thought we’d try and make it out in one piece, and go from there. Didn’t think we’d find a weird mansion out here.”</p><p>George and Lance don’t even need to look at each other, decades of marriage have left them sharing the same wave length. They smile as one. “Then stay here,” Lance offers. “Our children are all away at school or living far away. It’s been lonely, without them. We miss having company, sometimes.”</p><p>Catra looks at them, eyes wide. “We can’t—”</p><p>“I’m not sure—” Adora begins.</p><p>“You don’t have to stay forever,” George interrupts, looking at the way her tail’s fluffed and her ears have folded back. Then, he considers the way Adora presses their shoulders more firmly together, hands brushing. “But we have food, water, and I’m sure we have some clothes that will fit. You said it yourself: you escaped the Horde. If they come looking, you’ll be better off rested. And with supplies and a change of clothes, you’ll feel like new women.”</p><p>The two girls still hesitate, glancing between each other and the two men.</p><p>Lance smiles, kind and open, arms spread. “Please, just for the night. Let two old men rest easy knowing you’re safe. If you still want to leave in the morning, we’ll show you the way to the nearest town.”</p><p>Adora bites her lip, eyeing Catra. “Can we think about it?”</p><p>“Of course,” George and Lance say as one, brightening.</p><p>Lance claps his hands. “Well, first things first: how about dinner?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Why did you let me eat so much?” Adora groans, hands on her belly.</p><p>Catra prods at her belly, marveling. “I told you to slow down.”</p><p>“It was so much better than ration bars. I have no regrets.” She bats away Catra’s hand, face turning slightly green as it jostles her too-full stomach. She amends, “I have one regret.”</p><p>“It was seriously impressive.” Catra lays sideways on the unfamiliar, enormous bed, face tucked on top of her arms. “Like, at first it was gross, but then you inhaled that whole—what did they call it, cake? Like, you ate almost all of it yourself. And that was on top of, like, five plates of food. I thought you’d opened a black hole in your stomach.”</p><p>Adora groans again. “I don’t deserve this.”</p><p>“The price of greed,” Catra laughs, high and squeaky. She reaches out, pokes at Adora’s stomach again, giggling. “You’re like a balloon. Like, I could pop you if I pressed too hard.”</p><p>“Please don’t,” Adora whimpers. “If I vomit, I’m aiming for you.”</p><p>Catra shudders, jerking her hand away. “Ew. I’m still scarred from the last time. It took my hair a week to stop smelling like month-old ration bars.”</p><p>“Yeah, well,” Adora laughs, then winces. “You vomited in my boots two days later, so we’re even.”</p><p>They laugh together, even if one of them is more pained than the other.</p><p>“It’s weird,” Catra declares, shuffling a little closer to Adora on the bed. Her body is warm, the heat a pleasant lull for Catra. And the soft blankets around them are better than anything she’s felt before. “Lance and George, they’re so...”</p><p>“Nice?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Catra shifts slightly. “It kind of weirds me out.”</p><p>Adora hums thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling above them. It’s high, vaulted, and in the light of the moon through the open window, it is tinted a soft white color. “I get what you mean. I mean, I know Shadow Weaver wasn’t always kind—”</p><p>Catra scoffs. “Understatement.”</p><p>“But she could be nice, sometimes. To me, mostly,” Adora’s voice is quiet, regretful. The reminder of their opposite treatment forever a sore spot between them. “But it was nothing like this, like them. I know the Horde wasn’t a nice place, and Shadow Weaver wasn’t a good person, but. There were times I thought—hoped that she cared. And now, it makes me wonder if it, any of it, was real. She always wanted me to be the best, and I—”</p><p>“You wanted it to be because you were special.” Catra’s voice is hard, like steel. Her tail swishing a little.</p><p>“No,” Adora shakes her head. “I never wanted to be special. I just, I wanted to make her proud of me. I thought—it’s stupid, but I guess, I thought she loved me, maybe. I don’t know. But I didn’t want to lose that. Now, I’m not sure if there was ever anything to lose.”</p><p>There’s a tense moment, where Adora feels more than sees Catra’s mouth open and close. Shadow Weaver is a sore spot for both of them, for very different reasons. And she can sense the war in Catra’s mind, the words she wants to say—bitter, angry, hurtful—versus the warmer part of herself that doesn’t hesitate when she says Adora’s her best friend.</p><p>It shames Adora, knowing that Catra has been so hurt by a person Adora can’t bring herself to stop loving, even as much as she burns with the desire to expunge it.</p><p>“Yeah,” Catra settles, eventually. “Well, she wasn’t a good person. To either of us.”</p><p>Adora laughs, but it’s fragile, wry. “Yeah, I guess not.”</p><p>Abruptly, Catra’s tail settles across Adora’s bare legs. “They are nice, though. And dinner was...really good.”</p><p>Adora catches Catra’s eyes in the moonlight, they glow softly, and she knows that Catra can see here far better than Adora can. But she doesn’t need night vision to see what she needs to. She stares deeply into her eyes, blinking slowly, tugging on old memories and hoping Catra remembers what it means. “I know I told you already, but—I’m glad you’re here, Catra.”</p><p>Catra looks absolutely floored. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”</p><p>Something flares in her chest. “I don’t know what future we have now, but,” Adora takes a deep, fortifying breath, “I’d like to try and make one. Together.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Catra’s voice catches, falters. Her ears fold backwards, but her tail curls around Adora’s ankle like an anchor chain, unrelenting. A low staccato starts up around them. “I—I’d like that.”</p><p>Adora reaches out in the darkness, tangles their hands together. “Us against the world.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Catra curls up along her side, presses her forehead against Adora’s temple. “Us against the world.”</p><p>And somewhere in the quiet moments, that’s how Adora falls asleep: watched over by slowly blinking eyes and guarded by a strong, rumbling purr.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Why do you keep doing it?” Adora asks, hands planted on her hips and does her best to sound firm—the way Shadow Weaver says she has to, the way she imagines a Force Captain would. “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra’s tail swishes, her claws clicking softly against the pipes as she skitters further down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Catra!” Adora tries again, huffing. “C’mon, come down from there!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A head pops over the edge of the piping. “Leave me alone.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Not until you answer the question.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And Catra is only eleven years old to Adora’s twelve, but she’s already rebellious and headstrong. Time will prove that she has the capacity to be even worse, but in that moment—as she glares balefully down at Adora and sticks her tongue out—Adora is absolutely convinced that she is the most annoying person in the world.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora grumbles. “Catra, please. I’m just trying to understand why—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It doesn’t matter.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It does,” Adora insists, frowning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And it feels like they’re talking about more than one thing now, like she’s stumbled into the no man’s land that she’s read stories about, like there’s a field of mines at her feet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course it does.” She pauses, looking up into Catra’s narrowed eyes. “You matter to me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s a shriek and a spark, as Catra’s claws curl around the pipe’s edge and dig deep grooves. They aren’t deep enough to split them, but it’s a near thing. Adora winces. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And this is the crux of the issue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora is used to being pulled aside by Shadow Weaver without rhyme or reason. She’s used to reporting into Shadow Weaver’s chambers, keeping her shoulders even and back straight, even as the Black Garnet crackles and spits, prickling at her skin with an electricity of its own.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But today was different.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shadow Weaver had pulled her aside after a grueling day of double training, when all Adora wanted to do was fall into bed and not wake up. She had left Adora standing at attention, stewing in the dark energy of the Black Garnet. She had busied herself with vials and jars, reports and paperwork, all the while Adora stood with her arms behind her back and tried not to flinch.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The moment had lasted as long as eternity, maybe longer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But eventually, Shadow Weaver had stood in front of her, clutching her face with sharp nails—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(“Your pet,” Shadow Weaver croons, “is getting out of control, Adora.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ma’am?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I am receiving report after report—ruined textbooks, destroyed bedding, scratches in the walls, and lest I remind you, Cadet Octavia’s eye.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora winces, as the nails on her cheek dig in, little pinpricks turning her skin bone white.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Tell Catra to control herself. I am not in the habit of declawing our Cadets, but I might be forced to make exceptions, if her destructive behavior continues.” She pats Adora’s cheek with finality. “I have indulged your affection of her long enough, Adora. I leave it in your hands to convince her to see the error of her ways, or else I will be forced to intervene. Do not disappoint me.”)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m just trying to help you, Catra.” Adora’s voice has fallen away from its firm tone, now something more akin to pleading. “Please, just—you need to stop it. Shadow Weaver is getting mad—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But that is the wrong thing to say, clearly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever attention Catra was prepared to pay her is thrown straight out the window.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra skitters further down the pipes, hissing, leaving Adora scrambling after her. “Stop following me! Leave me alone! I don’t want to talk to you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’re not kids anymore, Catra,” Adora begs. “You can’t get away with using everything as a scratching post. I know you don’t need to. So, why?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But she gets no response, just an agitated tail flick.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora groans, rolling her jacket sleeves up her forearm. “You are so annoying.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra doesn’t respond, glaring back at her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Move over, dumb face,” Adora says, rolling her shoulders. “I’m coming up.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What?” Catra bites, scowling. “How are you even going to—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s about as far as she gets, before Adora literally scrambles up the wall at full speed. Her arm muscles, lithe and wiry but already starting to build muscle, flex as she pushes off, propelling herself just high enough to catch the overhead piping. Her forearms clang against the metal loudly, and it lets out a groan under their combined weight, but it holds.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are you an idiot?” Catra hisses.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora groans, pulling herself slowly up until she can squeeze onto the pipes beside her. She squirms and struggles, until she’s in a seated position, her dumb little hair poof half-mashed against the ceiling. “I guess,” Adora says easily, looking down at her dangling feet. “Whoa, this is higher than I expected.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra huffs, makes as if to move away, but doesn’t get too far before Adora tangles their hands together.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Adora,” she hisses. “Let me go.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She ignores Catra, turning her hand over in her palms, gently running the pads of her fingers over Catra’s claws. “Nope.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Adora,” she grumbles, again, but doesn’t tug her hand away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Catra,” Adora grins, bumping their shoulders together. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wordless, Catra lets out a hissing grumble.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora laughs against her, but doesn’t release her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They sit quietly for a moment, their hands joined.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The hall is still and silent around them, it’s dinner time, and the bulk of the cadets will be in the mess hall, not wandering around in the East Quadrant where there’s little more than training rooms and a few storage rooms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re missing dinner,” Catra grumbles, eventually. “It’s grey day today, too.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll steal some from Kyle later,” Adora shrugs. “I’d rather be here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why? Because Shadow Weaver made you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, duh,” Adora answers, ignoring the way Catra’s tail bristles. “But also because I love you, dummy. If there’s something going on, I want to know why. You’re my best friend. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The face Catra makes, when she turns to look at her, is openly awed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora smiles back. “So talk to me, doofus.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why do I put up with you?” Catra wonders out loud, mouth quirking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Because I’m awesome,” Adora answers, effortless. “And you can’t be friends with anyone who can’t kick your butt.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh, first of all, you can’t kick my butt. I let you win—” Catra deliberately ignores Adora’s snigger and her muttered ‘if you say so’, turning her nose up, “—and also, don’t feed your ego too much, or your dumb hair poof will grow too big for you to fit through the door.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora reaches up with her free hand, touching her hair. “Wh—that doesn’t even make sense!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course it does,” Catra laughs, prodding at it, ignoring Adora’s whine. “It’s where you keep your dumb walnut brain, that’s why it’s so tiny.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, I’m so kicking your butt tomorrow. You better watch out.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra flashes her a feral grin. “I’d like to see you try.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They smile like idiots at each other for a long moment, before Catra falters, looking away. She pulls her hand out of Adora’s, squeezing once and then pulling away. She draws her knees up to her chest, tail curling at her own ankles. “You really want to know why?”</em>
</p><p><em>Adora nods. “Duh.”</em> </p><p>
  <em>Catra’s tail curls and uncurls anxiously, as she reaches up. In a flash, with her claws, she carves the shapes of them into the concrete ceiling: it’s cartoonish, like the ones in their bunk, both of them grinning, except they’ve got bodies this time, hands held together.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A tense moment of silence passes, and Adora’s eyes flick between the drawings and Catra, something thick in her throat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s proof, I guess,” Catra says, avoiding eye contact. When she shrugs, her fur tickles Adora’s shoulder. “Proof that I was here. Proof that I existed. Proof that,” she hesitates, thumbing her claw over the caricature of her own face, “we were happy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t need proof. You’re here, with me. We’ll always be here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catra’s tail flicks, she draws in on herself tighter. “Promise me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She blinks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Promise me that,” Catra’s voice comes out choked, an urgent whisper. Abruptly, her tail shifts, curls almost desperately around Adora’s ankle, squeezing the life out of it. “Promise me that you won’t forget.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How could I forget?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She says it simply, like a fact.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But then Catra’s hand folds over Adora’s, something raw and pained and knowing in her gaze. She doesn’t say the words out loud, doesn’t speak them into existence, but there’s something, a roaring, itching feeling at the back of her mind—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Promise me,” Catra presses, slowly blinking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora blinks back at her once, twice, unsteady. “I promise.”</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Adora startles awake, hands trembling and heart racing.</p><p>She’s not gasping for air, not really. But she can feel a cold sweat at the back of her neck, her lower back, despite the burning warmth that surrounds her. And it’s stifling suddenly.</p><p>Abruptly, she sits up.</p><p>“<em>Mmr</em>,” Catra grumbles, jostled slightly from her position beside her.</p><p>Adora tenses, reaching out to brush a gentle, shaky hand against Catra’s forehead, until the crease between her brows eases. Her ear flicks, but she doesn’t wake.</p><p>She’s always been an early riser, even in the Fright Zone. Inclined to wake before anyone else, and slip in extra training sessions or morning walks—something that often earned her praise from Shadow Weaver or Instructor Cobalt, for her ‘dedication’. In truth, it’s mostly because she’s always been a restless sleeper.</p><p>Something about her memory—and she knows it’s one, as much a dream as a memory—has jostled her awake. It’s left her shaken, limbs prickling like they’re not her own, with a strange sensation like she’s two inches to the left of her own body. She doesn’t feel quite real.</p><p>Abruptly, she’s roiling with energy, restless in a rare way.</p><p>Careful not to wake her, she untangles Catra’s tail from her thigh. And then, making sure not to jostle her, she slips out of her arms, replacing them with a pillow. Catra’s tail shifts restlessly for a second, before curling around her own leg. She grips the pillow in a death grip.</p><p>Adora looks at her for a long moment, but her breathing doesn’t change.</p><p>In just her socks, she pads across the strange room and slips out the door. </p><p>Mindless, she wanders down the hallway she’d been led through the previous night. Leaves from the door labelled <em>Shiv</em>, past ones for <em>Bow </em>and <em>Jet </em>and <em>Pike </em>and <em>Bayonet </em>and many others. It’s weird that they name all their kids after weapons, but then, she’s not in a position to judge—Adora and Catra aren’t exactly normal names, either. </p><p>She finds herself twisted and turned around, lost in the labyrinthine halls. </p><p>Her feet carry her through a half-open door, into a room dedicated to tapestries and ruined sections of stone.</p><p>Lost, Adora finds herself drawn to one in particular.</p><p>It is a piece of heavy, yellowed cloth, an ancient tapestry. It depicts a battle, she thinks, in rigid lines intersecting and sharp reds, greens and blacks. At the top, half-faded against the cloth, geometric shapes and lines swim before her. It should be meaningless, nothing, but she looks at it and thinks: <em>The Razing of Krytis.</em></p><p>Her pulse, already racing, slams.</p><p>The world is dizzying, spinning, and she’s spiraling inside of it.</p><p>Adora is lost in her own mind, then—</p><p>A voice like Shadow Weaver’s croons for her, <em>Adora</em>, caresses her face with hands like ice.</p><p>A young, squeaky cry, pinpricks of claws in her back—and it’s Catra, tears in her eyes and barely more than five, reaching for her, <em>Adora</em>.</p><p>A voice she doesn’t recognize, a blanket with stars embroidered, flashes of green and burning lights in the sky above—<em>Adora</em>, they whisper. </p><p>“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”</p><p>Adora gasps, dropping into a lower stance without a thought, prepared to strike out at her attacker—</p><p>“Lance!” she squeaks, the fight dropping out of her. “Sorry, I—you startled me.”</p><p>He smiles at her. “I think I should apologize then, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He gestures up at the tapestry she’s been staring at. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We’re still working on what exactly it is. It’s Eternian, we think. But it’s not of Eternia, the First One’s homeworld. They usually paint Eternia in golds and blues. We think this is somewhere else, but we’re not sure where.”</p><p>Something solid, heavy sits in her stomach, on her chest. <em>Krytis</em>, she thinks again, but can’t puzzle out why.</p><p>Shaking her head, she forces her shoulders to relax. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be in here. I was just wandering, I—”</p><p>“It’s okay, you’re welcome to explore,” Lance yawns, and Adora’s struck then by the fact that he’s still in his pajamas: a pair of thick grey pants and a robe of some kind on top. “Us historians are happy whenever the younger generations take an interest.”</p><p>Adora gives him a weak smile. “Did I wake you up?”</p><p>“No,” he laughs. “Caffeine cravings, unfortunately. I would not recommend indulging in coffee, unless you want to become a zombie in the morning, like us old folks.”</p><p>Adora doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but nods regardless. </p><p>“You’re up early,” Lance says, waving for her to follow him. “Bad dream?”</p><p>Adora looks down at her hands. They’ve stopped shaking, but they’re fisted so tight that her knuckles are bone white. “Yes, no.” She looks away, shaking her head. “Just strange.”</p><p>Lance looks at her, something sad and aching on his face. “It must be odd, being so far from home for the first time.”</p><p>“Yeah,” she agrees. “The Fright Zone is always so loud, even at night—it’s different here. Quiet, but it makes everything louder, I guess. It’s—I’m not sure how to explain.”</p><p>He smiles. “It’s okay. George gets the same way. It’s overwhelming, right?”</p><p>“Very,” she laughs, a little rawly.</p><p>“He gets caught up in his head sometimes. He saw a lot of things, back in the first War. Some days are worse than others. We’ve learned techniques and tricks to help him, over the years.” Lance leads her through the halls, down a set of stairs. “I know we don’t know each other well, but—he would love to talk to you about it, if you want. It might help.”</p><p>Adora can’t help but shrink in on herself a little, thinks of Shadow Weaver’s pushes to be perfect, to reject any help and to always forge along on her own. </p><p>Her hands tremble again, just for a moment. But she chases it away, fists her hands harder.</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” she agrees, weakly.</p><p>Lance leads her into the kitchen, coaxes her up onto a stool by the counter. “Well, I can’t exactly offer you coffee. But, how about hot chocolate? That always helps my son, Bow, when he has a bad dream.”</p><p>“Chocolate?” she perks up, mouth watering in memory of that cake she devoured last night.</p><p>He laughs, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I’ll take that as a yes.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Catra wakes alone.</p><p>She almost has a heart attack, upon realizing she’s alone, Adora’s knife sitting on the bedside table and no sign of her best friend anywhere in the room.</p><p>“Adora!” she calls, awake in an instant.</p><p>She’s out the door before she knows what’s happening.</p><p>She practically charges through the halls, on all fours because she moves faster that way, chasing the elusive scent of Adora—soft and sweet, inlaid with the hints of Catra’s own, for all the years they’ve shared a bed. She catches it at the end of the hall, a fading trail to the right, and a fresher one moving to the left.</p><p>Heart thundering, she dashes after it, right through an open door.</p><p>George and Lance are sitting at the desk, talking softly as they’re stooped over a scroll of some sort. They glance up when Catra skids through the door, alarm and then understanding shifting across their face.</p><p>“Where’s Ado—”</p><p>And then she sees her.</p><p>Adora is curled up on a little couch in the corner of the office, a fuzzy blanket draped over her shoulders and an empty mug on the floor beside her. She can smell it from here, chocolate, sweet and rich, buried in Adora’s scent. </p><p>“Oh,” she murmurs, softening.</p><p>Flicking a glance over at the two men, who smile reassuringly at her, but offer no words, Catra sets her shoulders. Moving from four legs to two, tail slowly settling, she makes her way over to Adora. Flicking them both one last, lingering look—the ‘<em>say anything and I’ll kill you</em>’ one she’s known for—she jumps up onto the sofa next to her.</p><p>Swallowing a yawn, she pulls the blanket from Adora’s shoulders. The girl twitches and groans, but doesn’t wake.</p><p>Huffing, Catra throws it around her own shoulders, and then plops herself heavily against Adora’s side. </p><p>Almost by instinct, Adora shifts, head tipping to rest on top of Catra’s.</p><p>Purring softly, Catra decides that it’s far too early to be awake anyway.</p><p>She falls asleep with Adora, to the sound of pens scratching and soft conversation.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i rewrote this chapter about five times, and cut soooo much content that was just filler, but hopefully you enjoyed it</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw: for shadow weaver being herself, we’re dealing with adora trauma time this chapter folks (and whoa, what’s that?? plot??)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Flick.</em>
</p><p>Adora grumbles softly as something tickles her nose, tucking herself deeper into the warmth. </p><p><em>Flick, flick</em>.</p><p>“Mmrn, <em>no</em>,” Adora grumbles, eyes sandwiched closed. “Stop.”</p><p>Her words, half mumbled, cause a stronger <em>flickflickflick </em>against her nose that makes her want to sneeze. “Ugh,” Adora huffs, and is immediately rewarded by a much stronger <em>thwack </em>across half of her face. “Catra, <em>stop it</em>.”</p><p>A low, amused sound rumbles against her. “Stop blowing in my ear then, idiot."</p><p>“Mm, you're the worst."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Catra's ear slaps her across her face one more time for good measure. "C'mon, get up. My shoulder's going numb and I'm pretty sure you drooled in my hair."</p><p>At that, Adora's eyes snap open. "I did <em>not!"</em></p><p>She cackles. "No, but it woke you up. Geez, aren't you supposed to be the morning person?"</p><p>Adora smothers a yawn into the blanket wrapped around their shoulders. "No, I'm just good at keeping to a schedule, unlike <em>some people</em>."</p><p>Catra sticks her tongue out. "Pfft, schedules are for squares. Besides, pretty sure you've missed morning wake-up, breakfast <em>and </em>combat training. That's poor work ethic, Cadet."</p><p>"Don't 'cadet' me," Adora nudges her shoulder. "It's Force Captain, remember?"</p><p>"Right, sorry Force Captain Bedhead. Requesting permission to drag a dumbass out of bed?"</p><p>"Denied."</p><p>"Meh, I was never good at orders anyway," Catra decides, snatching the blanket from around Adora's shoulders and ignoring her whine. Her ear tilts, head cocking towards the door. "C'mon, pretty sure those weird, old dudes are making lunch."</p><p>As tired as she is—</p><p>“Food?” Adora says hopefully.</p><p>Catra squints at her. </p><p>Her stomach growls. “I’m starving.”</p><p>“You ate a five course meal last night. How can you be <em>starving?</em>”</p><p>Adora pushes herself to her feet. In the tank top she’s borrowed, the muscles of her bicep are bare and visible. “I’m a growing girl,” Adora huffs. Then, she catches on to where Catra’s looking, and her smile turns a little smug. She has the audacity to <em>flex.</em> “See?”</p><p>Catra’s ears go back, cheeks burning. “Muscle big, brain small. Got it.”</p><p>"Hey!" Adora bristles. “Tell that to my test scores!”</p><p>“Those tests are bullshit,” Catra says, reflexive. “You couldn’t plan your way out of a paper bag.”</p><p>“I got us out of the Fright Zone, didn’t I?”</p><p>Catra scoffs, arms folding. “<em>I </em>did all the work. You’re lucky I was there, otherwise you’d still be listening to Kyle snore every night.”</p><p>Expression sly, Adora nudges her. “Yeah, instead I get to listen to <em>you </em>snore every night.”</p><p>“I do not!”</p><p>“Do too,” Adora retorts. “It’s cute, like a little purr.”</p><p>“I—you—” Catra is on her in an instant, trying to squeeze the life out of her. “Take it back! I do not snore!”</p><p>Even choking and wheezing, Adora laughs. “You totally do!”</p><p>"Well at least I don't fight in my sleep!"</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Ow! Stop it! Biting is cheating!”</p><p>“Don’t be a Princess!”</p><p>“You’re <em>heavy</em>, get off me!”</p><p>“Oh, yeah? Where’d all that muscle go?” Catra pulls away from Adora's shoulder, admiring the imprints of teeth in her skin. Pointedly, she tugs on Adora's hair. "You're going soft!"</p><p>"I'll show you soft—"</p><p>That's all the warning Catra gets before, <em>"Ooomph."</em></p><p>Adora appears over top of her, eyes bright, mouth curved in a wicked grin. "Hey, Catra."</p><p>Her thighs bracket Catra's, legs locked around her own. Her hands are locked around her wrists, out of reach of her dangerous claws. There is no inch of her that's yielding, even as Catra screeches and yowls under her.</p><p>It's a textbook pin, executed with the sort of flawless ease that would have made Commander Cobalt clap and their classmates cheer. It's the sort of effortless reversal that, in another place and time, would have made something in her fester.</p><p>But now, eyes blown wide, looking up into Adora's flushed face and wild hair, Catra freezes.</p><p>They're both panting, hearts racing, high on adrenaline and excitement and—</p><p>And Catra's stomach <em>coils</em>.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Adora asks, after the moment drags on too long. Her face shifts into a frown, grip easing.</p><p>She averts her eyes. "I'm <em>fine</em>."</p><p>Adora makes to pull away at the unexpected sharpness in her tone, frown deepening.</p><p>"Shut up, don't make it weird," Catra says, tail curling around Adora's ankle.</p><p>For a moment that might as well be eternity, Adora studies her—a thousand things flash across her face, behind her eyes, but for once Catra can't read any of them. </p><p>Instead of easing off, Adora draws in closer. Her hands slide up from Catra's wrists to her palms, tangle their fingers together. They have the hands of would-be soldiers: identically calloused, marred with pinprick scars and (in Adora’s case) a jagged, ropey one across the palm. But it feels soft, like it shouldn’t be.</p><p>Adora’s bare legs slide against Catra's as she releases the lock, lets them fall into a relaxed tangle. She leans in close. Her eyes are brighter, electric now. And her hair, loose and tangled, falls around them like a curtain, sealing away the world.</p><p>Unbidden, her fingers squeeze Adora's tightly, in tandem with the squeezing in her chest.</p><p>"Adora," she says, unsteady.</p><p>Those blue eyes scan her face slowly, closer than she's ever been. It's like she's drinking Catra in, mapping the contours of her face like topography.</p><p>Adora opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again.</p><p>"<em>Adora</em>," Catra repeats, heart racing like she's just run a marathon. Her vision is fuzzy, unfocused, tunneled in until all she's seeing is the girl sitting on top of her. </p><p>It feels like there's a thread between them, like there always has been; a line of tension now drawn taught, threatening to snap.</p><p>Catra <em>wants</em> to snap it.</p><p>She doesn't know how, or what it means, but she does.</p><p>It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, with the wind on your face, not knowing what comes after the fall. </p><p>"Catra," Adora returns, cheeks as red as Catra's feel. "I—"</p><p>The moment is broken when the door opens.</p><p>"Girls?"</p><p>They both freeze.</p><p>Lance hovers in the doorway, expression twisting from genial to surprised to <em>knowing</em>in a flash. He smothers a smile behind his hand. “Lunch is ready, if you’re hungry?”</p><p>At that, they both scramble off of each other, moment forgotten.</p><p>“Food?” Adora asks again, eyes shining.</p><p>Despite her racing heart, Catra facepalms.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Predictably, Adora seems to forget the weird encounter the moment they're presented with lunch—well, <em>brunch</em> their hosts had called it, setting platters of food down on the table. She doesn't waste any time in digging in, piling her plate high with eggs, bacon, pancakes, whatever she can get her hands on.</p><p>There’s nothing but rapturous joy on her face, sparkles in her eyes.</p><p>With nobody to distract her—</p><p>
  <em>("I'm sure they don't exactly teach table manners in the Horde," Lance had consoled George, a little green looking as Adora downed a whole pancake in one go, like a cobra. "We'll—work on it."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George had grimaced, taking a deep gulp of his tea. "I hope so."</em>
</p><p><em>Adora choked, coughed, and when Catra thumped her on the back, it shot back out with a wet </em>splat<em> and landed in George's plate.</em></p><p>
  <em>They had both made excuses, after that, to disappear quickly.)</em>
</p><p>—Catra is free to watch her, chin in her palm. </p><p>“Why aren’t <em>you </em>stuffing your face?” Adora asks, catching her stare, then swallowing three strips of bacon in one go. “You—mn—not like it?”</p><p>Catra shrugs. “It’s good.”</p><p>“Just good?” Adora gapes. “This is, like, the grey bars times <em>one thousand</em>.”</p><p>“If I knew you liked Princess food this much, I would’ve brought you some years ago.”</p><p>Adora swallows a bulging mouthful of eggs, speaking disgustingly around them. “Why’d they torture us with gross ration bars when we could’ve been eating real food. How did we not know?”</p><p>Catra grimaces. “You mean, how did <em>you </em>not know? That stuff was all over the Fright Zone, dummy. You were just the only one too square to try any of it.”</p><p>“What? Was not!”</p><p>“Uh, yeah, you were.” Catra grins. “Remember? Lonnie tried to get you to try a chocolate bar when we were, like, eleven. You screeched so loud that Commander Cobalt came and took it off her. He made us all run extra laps, too.”</p><p>Adora flushes. “I did not!”</p><p>“Then Lonnie bit you,” Catra lets out a small snicker. “Pretty sure you cried.”</p><p>“I still have the scar,” Adora replies, rubbing her uncovered arm. She nudges Catra. “Anyway, I remember <em>you</em> biting Lonnie back.”</p><p>Catra shrugs, easy as breathing. “Yeah, well, she deserved it.”</p><p>“My hero,” Adora grins.</p><p>Catra rolls her eyes. Her tail flicks behind her. “You’re <em>my </em>chew toy. I have exclusive biting rights to that pretty skin.”</p><p>Adora makes a sound between a wheeze and a choke, eyes wide. “Pretty?”</p><p>Her brain catching up with her mouth, Catra turns red right down to her roots. “Shut up!” When Adora opens her mouth, expression smug, she shoves a heaping forkful of eggs down her throat. “Don’t be weird!”</p><p>Adora gags, splutters. “<em>Hrk—” </em></p><p><em>“Ew, </em>Adora, <em>gross</em>!” Catra squeaks, as scrambled eggs spray across the table.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Adora's still slumped in her seat, groaning at the fullness in her stomach, when Catra drags her away from the table.</p><p>"C'mon, lets check this place out," Catra says, pulling her along by the hand. "These guys are total weirdos, who knows what freaky stuff they've got."</p><p>She stumbles along, a little green around the edges. “Catra, maybe poking around isn’t the best idea.” </p><p>“Pfft, don’t be a killjoy. What are you, scared?”</p><p>“I’m <em>not </em>scared,” Adora retorts, immediately—then regrets it, because the grin she gets in return is razor-sharp, and she feels like they’re twelve again and Catra’s <em>definitely </em>about to lead them into trouble. “I just think that they probably wouldn’t want us to touch anything.”</p><p>Catra rolls her eyes. “Then don’t touch. Doesn’t mean we can’t look. Besides, we’re just, y’know, <em>scouting out a potential threat</em>. It’s just common sense.”</p><p>“Alright,” Adora agrees, like a woman signing her own death warrant. “But if anything bad happens—”</p><p>“Then I’ll claw their eyes out and we run.” Catra smirks. “Relax.”</p><p>“Yeah, because that mental image is <em>real </em>relaxing.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As it turns out, most of their collection is, well—</p><p>“Boring,” Catra grumbles, tossing a book over her shoulder.</p><p>Squeaking, Adora jumps to catch it. She holds it close to her chest, glaring. “Catra! You can’t just—!”</p><p>Catra tosses another one. “Pfft, also boring.”</p><p>Snatching another one out of the air, Adora hisses. “Catra! Stop it!”</p><p>“All this is such Princess crap. Like,” she holds up another book, there’s nothing on the front cover but the words <em>Peace and Conflict Resolution: A Primer, “</em>who even needs something like this?”</p><p>“I mean, maybe you should check it out. I think we could <em>both </em>use a little more peace.”</p><p>“Peace is for Princesses.” Catra sticks her tongue out. She sets it down, picks up another. “I thought they’d have more interesting stuff. Like, ancient weapons or, y’know, at least some sort of war stories. It’s all either this weird, geometric crap or books about, like, gardening? Gross.”</p><p>Adora is so thankful that neither George or Lance have made an appearance, because she can’t quite bring herself to disagree with Catra’s notions. She’s no gardener, and honestly reading about conflict resolutions does sound, admittedly, yawn-inducing.</p><p>But, also, she knows Catra and she <em>really </em>doesn’t want to have to apologize for her calling their entire life’s work boring to their faces. </p><p>“They’ve got some,” Adora hesitates, <em>“interesting </em>art?”</p><p>Catra pauses, looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Art?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she flushes. “Like, these banner things. I saw them earlier. There’s some about war, I think.”</p><p>And well, they did give her a whole existential crisis. But there was something about the way that the pictures, the <em>words</em>, drew her in that tugs at the back of her skull, even now—</p><p>Catra’s ear flicks. “Show me.”</p><p>Adora blinks.</p><p>“Better than these dumb books,” Catra shrugs, stands. “C’mon, lead the way.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Adora’s sense of direction isn’t the greatest, but she manages to guide them back to the same room she was in earlier that morning. The light has shifted now, the afternoon sun burning through the tree canopies, casting twisting shadows across the floor. </p><p>She looks up at the giant tapestry, again, <em>Razing of Krytis</em> imprinted in her brain as she traces the angular lines and shapes backwards across it. Being here makes her itch, and though there’s no voices shouting at her this time, there’s still a sense that she’s staring at something she <em>knows, </em>but she doesn’t know <em>why</em>, and it’s like a dagger in her head.</p><p>“Whoa,” Catra says, at her side. “This thing’s huge.”</p><p>And it is. “Yeah.”</p><p>“What’s it supposed to be?” Catra says, squinting, tilting her head. She’s leaning so close, she’s practically touching it, taking in the smooth strokes on the ancient fabric. </p><p><em>A battle? A war? A slaughter?</em> Adora thinks all of these things, for reasons she doesn’t understand. They race through her like they belong to someone else, stem from somewhere she can’t see. Instead, she replies, “I don’t know.”</p><p>Catra’s nose wrinkles. “Must be more of that weird First Ones stuff they were going on about.”</p><p>While Adora stares at it for a moment longer, humming, Catra quickly gets distracted again. She wanders between the other tapestries, in other colors and shapes, some more worn than others. Then, she inspects the variety of stone tablets laying around, scowling at them. </p><p>“You’d think that if they went to so much trouble to make this stuff, they’d make sure someone could actually understand what it was about.”</p><p>Adora shrugs, eyes a tapestry with the words <em>Arriving on Etheria</em> on it. “Yeah, I guess.”</p><p>If Catra notices her distraction, she doesn’t point it out.</p><p>Instead, she traipses over to the last piece on display. “Check it out,” Catra says, waving her over to look at the object safely kept inside a cube of glass. </p><p>The first thing Adora notices is that it’s a vase.</p><p>She nudges Catra’s side. “Don’t break this one.”</p><p>The look she gets is nothing short of a glare, but the smack she gets on the arm bares no claws. “You’re such a dummy,” Catra scoffs, shakes her head. But she leans in closer, anyway. “Gotta be a Princess, right?”</p><p>Adora looks closer. The vase has a simplified depiction of a blonde woman, dressed in white and gold, a crimson cape spilling behind her. She's sitting on a dragon, a sword held aloft. “Yeah,” she says, absently.</p><p>But the sight of it tickles something in the back of Adora's brain.</p><p>It's a sharp, scratching feeling, like scrambling to recall a memory that sits just out of reach.</p><p>A headache burns between her eyes, abrupt, and worsening. She can't look away. Her eyes focus on the sword, on the diadem the women wears, on the outline of glowing gold she swears she can <em>just </em>make out.</p><p>Adora leans closer, without knowing why. Her palms rest on the glass, then her forehead. Between the lancing in her skull, there's a coiling in her gut, a sudden racing feeling in her chest. She feels woozy, off-balance. "Catra, I—"</p><p>"Hey, Adora? Adora!" Catra grabs her wrist, nails on skin. But Adora doesn't even flinch. "What are you—?"</p><p>Adora's vision wavers, tunnels, until all she can see is the Princess.</p><p>Everything fades to white noise, static in her ears, and she knows Catra’s speaking but she can’t make out the words.</p><p>Her eyes hone in on sharp lines and points.</p><p>"I think," she says, deaf to her own voice, "her name is She-Ra."</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I keep having these strange dreams," Adora confesses, wringing her fingers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shadow Weaver's eyes sharpen. "Strange?"</em>
</p><p><em>"Yes, I don't understand. There's a woman, and she's talking to me. She says my name like she </em>knows <em>me."<br/>
</em></p><p>
  <em>At that, Shadow Weaver stills, the very air around her frozen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I don't know her,” Adora says. “But, her voice, it’s—I feel like I should."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A deep, yearning part of her craves it. To know who this woman is, who says Adora's name like she knows everything: where she came from, who she is, who she can be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Before being a Force Captain, before Catra, before the other Cadets. In the Before, all Adora had ever known was Shadow Weaver. She’s the first face that Adora remembers ever seeing. She remembers being young, barely more than a toddler, looking up at Shadow Weaver with wide, blue eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She remembers, then, asking where she came from.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But there had been no answer, then, nothing but a pat on the head and a request not to ask again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Adora has never broken that request, treated it as a rule. No matter how many days and nights she’s spent wondering about where she came from, she’s kept it buried and hidden. But it’s always been there, bubbling beneath her skin like a craving.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It feels like betrayal, now, to say it out loud.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shadow Weaver watches her like a bird of prey. "What else?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"She says that balance must be restored, that—" Adora hesitates, licks her lips. Saying it feels wrong. Like admitting to a terrible secret, but one she’s not in on. "She says that Etheria must seek a hero."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I see.” After a moment, Shadow Weaver stands, towers over her. “I’ve always known you were special, Adora.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She freezes, shadows darting in her peripheral vision. “Shadow We—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shh.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something brushes against her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“But I—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It squeezes at her throat, dark and writhing. Her hands jerk, panicked, but they refuse to move. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She stares, eyes wide.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Rest now, Force Captain," Shadow Weaver croons, red sparkling around her fingers. She cups Adora's face, the touch electric, familiar and yet not, because when has Shadow Weaver ever touched her like this? "When you next wake, all will be well."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her vision fades to monochrome, blacks and whites and grays—and, through it all, the burning red of the Black Garnet pulsing over Shadow Weaver's shoulder, dark as blood. Shadows dart in the fraying edges of her vision. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shadow Weaver?" she asks, voice trembling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Look at me, Adora.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The hand grips tighter, and she drags herself back to Shadow Weaver's mask. The garnet between her eyes burns.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"The Horde requires no heroes."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She blinks, once, twice—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gone.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Adora comes back to herself, to Catra shaking her by the shoulders.</p><p>"Adora! Adora, c'mon! Adora!"</p><p>Her throat feels dry, her hands shake. "Catra! I'm fine, what are you—"</p><p>"You idiot!" Catra hisses. "What's wrong with you? What happened?"</p><p>"Happened? What do you mean?"</p><p>"You just went all zombie mode on me! I thought all that brain damage finally caught up with you!" Catra shoves her shoulder, but the tight, anxious curl of her tail around Adora's waist doesn't let her go far. "What happened?"</p><p>She shakes her head. "I don't know, it's just, that vase—"</p><p>"Was it some creepy Princess magic?" Catra shakes her again. "I knew we shouldn't have stayed here. These guys are probably just planning to brainwash us or interrogate us."</p><p>The adrenaline she hadn't realized was pulsing through her fades, and Adora sags slightly, exhausted. "It's not that, it just—I don't know, but it made me remember something. I can't explain it."</p><p>"She-Ra?"</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"You said that name, before you went all weird on me," Catra says, eyebrows pulled together.</p><p>The headache is still throbbing behind her eyes, and the name, <em>She-Ra</em>, makes it increase again. She blinks, almost can’t bring herself to open her eyes again. She’s surprised she’s even kept her feet.</p><p>Adora feels washed out, wrung dry, like something’s reached inside her and dragged everything out. Like something’s been rattled loose. She can almost taste it, heavy on the back of her tongue. </p><p>“It was Shadow Weaver.”</p><p>Catra stiffens, ears back and shoulders up. “What?”</p><p>“I saw her. It was back in the Horde, I was in front of the Black Garnet. We were talking, I guess. It was like, a vision, or a—” she falters, takes a shaky breath.</p><p>Catra stares back at her, eyes wide but mouth drawn tight. “A memory.”</p><p>And there’s something in the way she says it, something dreadful, something that snaps into sharp clarity and forces her eyes to open wide. A million memories of Catra flash through her mind: things like <em>promise me you won’t forget</em>, like a trembling hand leading her down a hall she doesn’t remember going down, like waking up in her bed that first time with a red-eyed Catra curled up around her.</p><p>“Catra,” Adora says, slow, struggling to voice the words. “Did Shadow Weaver—”</p><p>The hands on her shoulders drop. Catra pulls back, leaves Adora standing on her own, swaying slightly, but for the anchor of the tail that’s still reluctantly curled around her wait. </p><p>Catra looks away, waits, ears back and mouth flat.</p><p>She’s freezing, Adora suddenly realizes, ice running up and down her spine. It makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Makes her entire body stiffen, shudder. “Catra,” she says again, desperately wills the words to come out strong, but they’re choked. “Did she take them from me?”</p><p>She hesitates. “Adora—”</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” she pleads. “Don’t lie to me.”</p><p>Catra bites her lip so hard, Adora sees a bead of blood. “I—”</p><p>“How many times?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Adora, please.”</p><p>It’s all so <em>clear </em>now, there’s blank spots that are coming into sharp relief. Not memories to fill them, not exactly, but there’s the aching realization of how disjointed things are, like a track skipping. That sense of being in one place and time, frozen, just to jump into another.</p><p>Her hands curl into fists. “H-How much did I lose?”</p><p>Eventually, Catra’s mouth opens, and the words that she speaks are like they’ve been pried out of her. They’re terse, short, but <em>despairing. </em>“I don’t know.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i have no excuse for how long this took</p><p>dedicated to all the ppl messaging me on tumblr who inspired me to actually update lmao, if you want you can stalk me there too @ adorabottoms</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>shadow weaver is still a bitch - that is all</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first face that Catra ever remembers seeing is Adora’s.</p><p>She remembers being young, still kitten fur and milk teeth. The world nothing but darkness for far too long, something soft and squishy beneath her that her needle-like claws had already ripped to shreds. A box, she finds out later in life. </p><p>“Kitty!”</p><p>And Catra will always, <em>always </em>object to being called that. It’s demeaning, makes her feel less like a person and more like an animal, but—</p><p>She remembers the lid of the box being opened. She remembers hissing against the light, frightened for reasons she can’t remember anymore, huddling into the corner with the blanket drawn around her shoulders.</p><p>But, then she remembers Adora: her chubby face, her wide, blue eyes and her gap-toothed smile, peering down at her like she’s never seen anything more fantastic in her life.</p><p>And Catra has been looked at a lot of different ways in her life: as a nuisance, a pest, a drain on resources.</p><p>But that?</p><p>Catra will <em>never </em>forget the first time someone looked at her like she was something important. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The look on Adora’s face makes her flinch.</p><p>Catra’s tail slips from Adora’s waist, and she watches as she sways and stumbles. She doesn’t reach out, even though Adora’s pale-faced and shaking, eyes wide. Like she always will, Adora finds her feet without her.</p><p>“You <em>knew </em>she was taking them,” Adora repeats, hurt and anger and <em>betrayal</em> in her eyes. And she isn’t shouting, not exactly, but the words pierce like knives. “You knew! And you never told me! I can’t <em>believe </em>you!”</p><p>“Knew what?” Catra retorts hotly. “That she’s evil? That she’s been manipulating us? Lying to us? That she’s been literally torturing me for <em>years</em>? Of course I knew, and you did too! You were just too caught up in being her favorite to believe it!”</p><p>Adora shakes her head. “How could I?”</p><p>
  <em>How could I. </em>
</p><p>Catra’s anger is a sharp, destructive thing. </p><p>The Horde burned the weakness, the softness, out of her a long time ago. It taught her to keep her claws out and to bare her teeth. Her hurt is a weapon. She is all harsh edges, jagged enough to cut. And now, she turns that full-force on Adora.</p><p>“How couldn’t you!”</p><p>Adora looks back at her, eyes wide.</p><p>And it’s so, so <em>pathetic </em>that it hurts her so much to see the genuine confusion on her face. Because Catra has never been good with words, not when it comes to feelings and frustrations, but Adora is her best friend and how could she not know?</p><p>“She’s a <em>monster</em>, Adora! Is this really news to you?” Catra laughs, but it’s shaky, unhinged. “I can’t believe—maybe she really did scramble your brains. Are you really that dumb? Did you really think she actually cared about anyone but herself? God, it makes me <em>sick</em>.”</p><p>And there it is—</p><p>Adora looks at her like she’s punched her, like Catra’s words have stolen all the air from her lungs.</p><p>“Shadow Weaver only wanted to <em>use </em>you!”</p><p>It shouldn’t bring satisfaction to her, and it doesn’t really, but the way Adora recoils tastes like victory—a pyrrhic one, maybe, like standing in the ashes of a wasteland, alone. It tastes like anger and fear, like blood on the back of her tongue. </p><p>But then, there’s a noise: something wounded, low.</p><p>“She took my <em>memories, </em>Catra,” Adora retorts, shaking her head. Her hands come to her temples, pressing tight, like she can wring more out if she squeezes hard enough. She makes that noise again. “She just—just held me there and took them.”</p><p>Catra swallows, bile and bitterness, her stomach like lead.</p><p>Because she’s seen Adora in a lot of different ways in her life: exhausted after a long day of training, beaming while being praised, laughing so hard she snorts, determined in the face of a new challenge. But—</p><p>She’s never seen Adora cry.</p><p>“How much did she take?” Adora whispers, and her hands travel around to her face. She makes fists, scrubbing roughly at her eyes. “What else am I missing? I am even really me, or did she just take out all the pieces that she didn’t like?”</p><p>And that’s the thing, Catra has no idea. </p><p>If their lives are a book, Shadow Weaver hasn’t just crossed out the lines, she’s ripped out entire chapters.</p><p>And it <em>aches, </em>burns, and the weakest part of herself <em>hates </em>Adora for the blankness she sometimes gets in her eyes. The way she doesn’t remember some of their most precious moments: the first time they held hands, the first time Catra beat her in a race, or even Catra’s sixteenth birthday, when they skipped training and counted down to midnight with a tray of stolen ration bars and a single candle. </p><p>“She took enough,” Catra says, harsh where she knows she should be soft. “That’s all she knows how to do. She takes the best parts of people and <em>ruins </em>them.”</p><p>“Is that what you think I am?” Adora asks, and there’s a bite in it now despite the tears. “Ruined?”</p><p>She hesitates, but her blood races through her ears. “Just forget it, Adora. Like you always do.”</p><p>From now until eternity, Catra will never get the responding look out from behind her eyes. The raw <em>hurt</em>. An expression she’s never seen Adora wear when she looks at her. </p><p>So, Catra does what she does best.</p><p>She runs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In the aftermath, Adora finds herself in a haze.</p><p>She slips down the side of the display, boneless. Draws her knees to her chest and buries her face in her folded arms. Her mind is racing, the headache splitting. Adora digs her nails into her skin, bites her lip, lets the feelings ground her when all she can feel is her skin crawling like it’s being caressed by a thousand skittering shadows.</p><p>Her mind spins in circles: Catra, Shadow Weaver, the woman’s voice, all of it.</p><p>Betrayal and anger and grief, they scratch and scrape in her chest until she’s hollow. Until the tears stop. Until all she’s doing is sitting, back aching from the stillness and mind spiraling, but silent. </p><p>That’s how George finds her.</p><p>He sits slowly across from her. “Would you like to talk about it?”</p><p>Adora gazes at him from behind the bridge of her arms. After a long moment, she shakes her head.</p><p>“That’s okay.”</p><p>She almost expects him to leave—it’s what they would do in the Horde, where emotions are pushed back in the pursuit of perfection. But, he doesn’t. He sits quietly across from her, hands folded in his lap. Just, waiting.</p><p>It’s a long silence, one she’d normally fumble to fill. But, she doesn’t have the effort, not now.</p><p>After what might be an eternity, she lets her legs drop from her chest and her arms with them. Just crosses her legs instead, presses her palms to her knees, nails picking at the stitching on her pants. </p><p>“I know we don’t know each other well, but,” George says, eventually. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s not quite sure how to phrase what he wants to say, but he knows he needs to say it. He strokes his mustache, humming. “You remind me of myself.”</p><p>She just blinks at him, too tired to frown.</p><p>If anything, the confusion on her face makes him smile. </p><p>“Your friend, Catra,” he says, softly. “You care about her, a lot.”</p><p>And despite everything, despite the clench in her chest that says <em>she lied to me, </em>Adora’s first instinct will always be to look out for her. She gives a helpless shrug. “She’s my best friend.”</p><p>He nods. “But?”</p><p>“But, Catra is <em>prickly</em>,” she says, looking away. “Just when I think I <em>understand </em>her, she does something I don’t expect, and it’s just—is it so <em>hard </em>to just, you know, talk to me? To act like a normal person, for once?”</p><p>He laughs, then. “Do you blame her?”</p><p>“<em>Never. </em>The Horde, it wasn’t,” Adora hesitates, takes a fortifying breath, the memory of Catra’s panicked shouting fresh in her mind, the <em>how couldn’t you</em>. “It wasn’t <em>good </em>to her. To anyone, really. But especially her.”</p><p>George looks heartbroken, but unsurprised. “They hurt you both.”</p><p>It’s not a question, but a statement.</p><p>And Adora’s eyes jerk back to him, surprise and something like <em>terror </em>on the back of her tongue.</p><p>“We had Shadow Weaver, she—well, she raised us, I guess. If you can call it that. But she did things, things I can’t—” her voice breaks off, shuddery, exhausted. “And I just, I thought that things would change when we left. When we were free from her, from the Horde. But Catra, she’s still hiding things from me. Things I should have known.”</p><p>George’s face is nothing but sympathetic, despite the crinkle of pain in the corner of his eyes. “May I tell you something? Something it took me a long, long time to learn?”</p><p>She nods, slowly.</p><p>“You’ll never know <em>all </em>of someone, not even if you spend a hundred years together.”</p><p>Adora blinks. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>His eyes are warm, kind, in the way that tells her he must be thinking of Lance. “I’m a historian, I record and preserve <em>centuries </em>of stories. And do you know what I’ve found in every single one?”</p><p>She shakes her head.</p><p>“All stories have two sides to them.” He says it bluntly, toying with the curl of his mustache. “You have the right to be upset, to decide if what she’s done is unforgivable. But you’ll never know why if you don’t ask. Communication is hard, but losing someone you love is much, much harder.”</p><p>She digs her nails in harder to her knees. “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”</p><p>“Forgive me, but I have eyes,” he laughs so hard it looks like he might cry; wheezing, genuine laughter. “I’ve seen the way that girl looks at you. I may not know what happened, but I know she cares very much about you. Why else would she have come all this way with you?”</p><p>Adora bites her lip. “I guess you’re right.”</p><p>“I can’t tell you how to feel,” George says, standing. “But I can tell you this: giving each other space is important, but so is talking to each other. It’s scary, but so many tragedies would have ended much better if only somebody had stuck out a hand for someone else.”</p><p>She sucks in a deep breath, the whirling emotions still a tight, anxious ball in her stomach.</p><p>It doesn’t feel much better, but, his words have given her something to think on—something that isn’t Shadow Weaver’s hands on her face, the strike of betrayal like claws in her back, the sense of <em>loss </em>that buzzes through her.</p><p>He makes some gentle excuses, then, leaves her with an unreadable smile and a lot to think about.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Adora is four, and Shadow Weaver is barely paying her any mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She is old enough to not need constant supervision, at least as far as the Horde is concerned, and yet young enough to not be pushed into Cadet training yet. They do daily stretches and gymnastics, but most of her time not playing is spent curled up quietly at Shadow Weaver’s side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Force Captains who report to Shadow Weaver snap crisp salutes, eyes darting to Adora’s spot in the corner. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They must be new, she decides, doing her best to write tidy letters in her little notebook. New Force Captains never expect her to be here. Adora doesn’t really know why she’s here either, but she’d do anything to make Shadow Weaver happy, and she always pats her head in that nice way when she gets her letters right.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Force Captains,” Shadow Weaver growls, and it’s none of the deliberately-gentle tone she uses when she speaks with Adora. “What is it?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The one on the left, a lizardman with deep red scales, is carrying a huge box. He lets out a grumbling noise, but what he’s said is lost on Adora. On Shadow Weaver, too, because she narrows her eyes on the other Force Captain, a woman with dark eyes and silver hair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ma’am, we found, well—” the box jostles, and the lizardman fumbles to hold it still. “One of those beasts. Or a baby one, anyway. Found it hidden in a bunch of boxes after the battle. Think it might be important. What do you want us to do with it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shadow Weaver stands—or, well, floats? She’s pretty sure Shadow Weaver doesn’t have legs. At least, she’s never heard her make footsteps anyway. But she makes her way over.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Show me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are you sure?” The box jostles again, and Adora thinks she hears something yowling. “We don’t think it’s housebroken yet, Ma’am. It took a chunk out of Alvaro.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The red lizard grumbles angrily, and Adora spots the bandage wrapped around its palm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shadow Weaver waves a hand. “I’m sure, Force Captains, that you can handle one measly Magicat child. No?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, Ma’am. Of course.”</em>
</p><p><em>The lizardman obediently sets the box on the floor, the wooden crate making a heavy </em> <em>thud. It makes more furious noises come from inside. They hook one of their claws into the side of it, which has been nailed down. When they yank, it rips the nail right out.</em></p><p>
  <em>Adora is out of her seat before she knows it, because she’s young and curiosity outweighs fear. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She is definitely a Magicat,” Shadow Weaver notes, and there’s more hissing and spitting. “Feral, too. Useless, if that can’t be trained out of her. Does she speak?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If either of the Force Captains speak, Adora doesn’t hear them. She makes her way over to them, peers inside of the box.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Adora!” Shadow Weaver commands. “Don’t—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But she’s already leaning over the edge of the box.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The first thing she spots is a tail, ears, and tiny needle-like fangs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Kitty!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s the best thing she’s ever seen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She extends her hand, and—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ow!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Even later, when she’s teary-eyed and clutching her bleeding hand, while Shadow Weaver commands them to drop her off with ‘the other beasts’, Adora is still in love at first sight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She begs and pleads and eventually, much to Shadow Weaver’s disgust, throws what might be her first ever tantrum.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The result is Adora and Catra, shoved into the room in the orphanage together with the other kids, door locked behind them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The other kids are all curious about Catra, pressing in close and shrieking when she hisses, clawing at them. She’s half-feral with fear, and doesn’t speak to them besides in growls and soft noises. Doesn’t speak at all, actually, for the first month. It takes almost two before she learns Catra’s name. But she doesn’t need her name to know that she adores her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So Adora stands in front of her, arms spread, and tells everyone else to give her new friend some space. She smiles back at Catra’s fluffed tail and pinned ears, and tells her she’ll protect her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s the first time they meet, and though neither one knows it at the time, they’ll never be apart.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She finds Catra on the roof.</p><p>It’s not surprising, ever since she was a kitten she’s had a proclivity for climbing. It became a hazard when they were young, because although she loved climbing, she <em>hated </em>heights. It usually meant that Adora would have to climb up after her yowling best friend and coax her back down again. </p><p>Still, Adora’s arms burn with the effort of scaling up the building, scrabbling up along low-hanging vines and whatever footholds she can find in the marble. She almost falls, more times than she cares to admit. And by the time she pulls herself up and onto the top of the roof, she keels over on the ledge.</p><p>“Could you <em>be </em>any more loud,” Catra huffs, immediately. </p><p>Adora almost laughs, but decides, after squinting at the lashing tail, that it’s probably better not to. “Whew. You didn’t make it easy, you know.”</p><p>Catra’s back is to her, but Adora can <em>feel </em>the teeth being bared. “I wonder <em>why</em>.”</p><p>And this is how Catra is, how the Horde made her. It burned the vulnerability, the soft parts, away—not completely, not fully, but they’re covered by scar tissue and barbed word. In another time, it would have made Adora angry, made her frustrated, but now—it just makes her sad.</p><p>She lets out a sigh, forcing herself up on her elbows. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Catra’s tail stops dead. She doesn’t turn. “For what?”</p><p>“For yelling at you. For blaming you. For,” she hesitates, guilt curling in her chest. “For forgetting.”</p><p>At that, Catra’s head snaps sharply to the side. She looks at Adora, her ears back and her single blue eye burning. “<em>Don’t</em> apologize to me for that.”</p><p>“But I am.”</p><p>“Don’t be.” She words are terse, but Catra’s tail flicks back around, curls around her ankles. And it’s a gesture Adora recognizes, self-soothing, a trace of her true thoughts she’s never been able to hide. “You didn’t ask her to go messing around with your walnut brain.”</p><p>“I know.” Adora pushes herself to her feet. “But I made you a promise.”</p><p>Surprise and grief color Catra’s face, before she can fully hide them. “You remember that?”</p><p>“It makes way more sense now.”</p><p>Catra watches her approach, each of her movements telegraphed and careful, but she doesn’t tell her to stop. Even though her ears lay flat against her scalp, her mouth is drawn in a scowl, she allows it.</p><p>Eventually, as Adora sits slowly next to her, Catra looks away. “I won’t say sorry.”</p><p>The distance between them is minimal, but it feels like they’re being pulled closer. Like they’re both planets, like there’s gravity between them, like they’re destined to be pulled into each other’s orbit.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Adora looks down at her legs, plucks a loose thread from her shorts. Her left knee is skinned, from a near-fall on the way up. There’s a set of small scars on her calves, pinpricks like needles, faded to a silvery color.</p><p>“Why did you do it?” she asks, softly. “Why not tell me?”</p><p>It’s quiet for a long moment.</p><p>“I didn’t want her to take me, too.”</p><p>Adora tilts her head up, looks up to the late-afternoon sky, the sun strong but hidden behind a few fluffy clouds. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I thought—” she glances at Adora, shoulders drawing in tighter. “I thought she might take me, too. That she’d get rid of me, like she always said she would. And you’d never even remember I existed.”</p><p>And nothing, <em>nothing, </em>could keep Adora from turning in the face of that.</p><p>“Catra,” she says, and her heart <em>breaks </em>at the look on Catra’s face. She jerks her head away, but it’s a moment too late, and Adora can make out the beginnings of quiet tears in her eyes. “<em>Catra</em>,” she says, again, insistent. “I could <em>never </em>forget you.”</p><p>The laugh she lets out is bitter, low. “You couldn’t. But Shadow Weaver—”</p><p>“She would have to take <em>all </em>of me, if she wanted to get rid of you,” Adora replies, the words fierce, her eyes burning. She reaches out slowly, enough time for Catra to reject her. When nothing comes, she places her hand on Catra’s forearm. “You’re my <em>everything</em>, Catra. She could <em>never </em>make me forget you.”</p><p>Her head whips back to Adora, and despite the tears, her eyes are blown wide open. “Do you mean it?”</p><p>“Of <em>course </em>I mean it.”</p><p>When Catra doesn’t flinch away from the touch, she grows bolder, braver. Her hand travels down her forearm gently, until their hands brush. Until so softly, slowly, their fingers link together.</p><p>“We’ll always be together, right?” Adora asks, a little choked. “Even if things aren’t perfect. Even if we fight?”</p><p>Catra’s response is instant, plain. “Duh. Obviously.”</p><p>Adora makes herself to breathe in and out, deeply, a few times. She doesn’t meet Catra’s eyes. Instead, she watches their joined hands and forces her fingers not to tremble. “I can’t lie, I’m upset that I didn’t know. How couldn’t I be? It’s <em>violating</em>, the way she did it, what she did.”</p><p>Catra’s ears fold back again, and her tail twitches. “It was messed up.”</p><p>“Yeah, it was. But, it wasn’t your fault.” That, at least, she can say with certainty. “I had a lot of time to think. To go through what happened. And George, he gave me some good advice. I don’t think I ever really <em>asked </em>how you felt, or what...she did to you. I thought I knew but—”</p><p>Catra gives a full-bodied flinch, hand curling tight enough in Adora’s to dig her claws in.</p><p>“Shadow Weaver <em>was </em>a monster. I know she was. And I’m sorry I didn’t see that, before. Or understand what you were going through. I’ve been a bad friend.” Adora runs her thumb over the back of Catra’s hand. “But I want to be better.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Catra makes a soft, hissing noise. “I guess.”</p><p>Adora’s eyes flick back to her, and the open hurt and confusion and <em>fear </em>is written all over her face. She shakes her head, murmurs gently, “You don’t have to tell me now. But, maybe one day?”</p><p>Catra sucks in a deep breath, blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. There’s relief, plain as day on her face, in the way her hand relaxes in Adora’s. “Yeah, one day.”</p><p>Adora smiles back, shifts so their shoulders are touching. “Okay. I can work with that.”</p><p>“Okay,” Catra says, uncertainly.</p><p>They sit together for a while, and it’s not exactly <em>comfortable</em>—there’s a few too many things unsaid, lingering hurt and shame and guilt stretched like threads between them. But, it’s them. Certain as the day is long, they always come back together.</p><p>Adora knows, from her head to her toes, that what she has with Catra is inevitable.</p><p>“I’m still glad you’re here with me,” Adora says, eventually, warm as the sun setting on the horizon. Warm as the feeling in her chest. Warm as the way Catra smiles at her in return. “I’m glad that it’s you. It’ll always be you.”</p><p>Catra leans heavily into her then, cheeks flushed and eyes darting away. “You promise?”</p><p>“I promise.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s long after dark, and they’ve been curled up in bed for hours now.</p><p>They both stayed on the roof until well after sunset, hands clutched and shoulders together, wordless. Had crept back into the house well after dinner, and were surprised to find two plates on a tray in their bed. They ate it quickly, ferociously, and then coiled up together.</p><p>They’re still pressed as tight as they can be now, like they’re one entity with joined roots. Like if they let go, even for a moment, the other will drift away. It’s soft, warm, and even though it should be suffocating, Catra feels a sense of <em>right </em>that makes her chest feel too small to contain it.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>Adora, sleepy and soft, nuzzles against the back of her neck. “Mm?”</p><p>She whispers it again, shameful. “I’m sorry—about what I said. All of it.”</p><p>It’s pathetic, that she can only bring herself to say this in the dark. With Adora behind her, around her, but without being able to see the hurt and the pain in her eyes. The words barely squeeze out of her, tied with pride and fear in the back of her throat.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Adora pulls her tighter, one arm around her waist and the other is pillowed tightly under Catra’s head, thumb absently stroking at ear. </p><p>“No.” Catra bites her lip. “It’s not.”</p><p>Adora pauses, but her breath is warm on her neck. “It isn’t,” she allows. “But I forgive you.”</p><p>“You can’t just forgive me,” her voice comes out trembling, rough. “You can’t let people walk all over you, talk to you like that. Like you’re—“ <em>nothing</em>, Shadow Weaver hisses, red sparking around her fingers, “not important. You have to stand up for yourself. You can’t just let people hurt you whenever they want.”</p><p>“You don’t want to hurt me.”</p><p>Catra curls one fist tight in the blankets. “I do, sometimes.”</p><p>“You don’t.” There’s conviction, easy as breathing, in Adora’s voice. “You’re just scared.”</p><p>It shouldn’t be so easy, to cut right to the core of a person. To strip all their layers bare, and leave the weak, aching, weeping parts of them scattered on the floor. But this—</p><p>“Even if you hurt me,” Adora promises. “I’ll always come back for you.”</p><p>“That’s—” terrible, dumb, sweet, awful, “—really stupid.”</p><p>Adora laughs against the skin of her neck, gentle and joyful. “Yeah, well. I’m stupid for you.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i love this story but i stg it’s the hardest to write, what are we on now, a monthly update schedule? ughhh</p><p>(i got called out on tumblr for writing too many wips and not updating this story. honestly, they’re right)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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